APEX PROJECT

The bus ride from Kerman felt interminable with nothing to do. She resigned herself to staring out the bus window at endless miles of rugged, treeless mountains thrusting sharply from the level desert plain where the narrow, two-lane, asphalt highway ran south. Named the Road of Kings according to the driver, marked by the signal towers rising out of the flatness---black stones, hard against the centuries of blowing sand, stand like sentinels beside the road. Once the signals and messages of an empire flashed from tower to tower. "Faster than this bus," she thought.

The hotel was a disappointment; the only two-story building in the colorless town. Large plate glass windows fronted the street letting the desert glare onto the worn Formica-topped tables forming the combination lobby and dining room. The portraits of the President and the Ayatollah hung prominently on the far wall along with the national flag of Iran.

She went back outside to make sure the driver unloaded all her cases and the two large canvas bags that held the tents and awnings. The store owner in Kerman had insisted she would need them if she were to stay beyond the end of April.

"You do not know about hot sun and the heat until you have been in Bam in the spring. But even my canvas will not save you in the summer. No one goes outside in the summer," he had warned her while his hands were busy on a calculator adding up her bill.

At the moment it seemed an unnecessary expense, nearly an extra five-hundred US dollars, but maybe the man was right. She had felt defenseless being the foreigner from America and with no real research about the place she was headed. The job had come up so suddenly and with the pressure of the State Department, eager to get it done and ready for publication before Christmas, she had to move quickly and without her usual, careful preparation for an assignment.

The driver with the help of a clerk from the hotel placed everything just inside the door. She collected her personal bags, the camera bag and her computer, digging in her travel purse for a ten dollar bill for the bus driver.

Turning to the clerk, she said, "I have a rental car coming. Can I leave the rest of these bags here until it arrives?"

The clerk obviously didn't understand English, but was happy that she didn't want him to carry everything up to her room.

The steep stairs led up to the narrow hall where the clerk pointed out the combination shower and toilets at the head of the stairs. Shiny, enameled, dark green lower walls gave way to white plaster, and a stained white ceilings glaring from a line of florescent lights running the length to the single, small window at the end of the hall.

The room felt very small; a cramped space for a twin-sized bed, a rust-spotted chrome chair with a molded orange seat, and a little table featuring a metal ashtray and a lamp.

"Thank you, this will be... fine." She gave the man a five dollar bill, making a mental note that she had to learn about the currency.

He gave her a key, smiling broadly and said one of the few English words he probably knew, "Thank you."

A few minutes later she went down the hall and confronted the dark corners of the toilets, happy to see there were both sit-down and squat-down type toilets. She wasn't ready for the reality of true squat and pee—not just yet. Everything looked clean and smelled of disinfectant.

After a change of clothes and brushing her longish, dark red hair free of snarls after having it tied back since Kerman. She retied her hair and locked the room.

As she made her way carefully down the uncomfortably steep stairs, two young men, sitting at one of the far tables next to the plate glass in the last light of the setting sun, jumped to their feet with slightly apprehensive smiles.

Quickly checking the note in her jacket pocket, she confirmed the names of the assistants hired for her several days before she left San Francisco through the Iranian Embassy and their Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Department of Antiquities.

"Jamshid?" she asked of the first young man who reached for her hand. He was the shorter of the two with very close cropped hair.

He murmured something in Farsi that she didn't understand, indicating that the other man was Jamshid. "Man Iraj e-Duruh hastam," he said.

The "Iraj" she recognized, it being the other name on her note. "Oh, I'm sorry. Iraj, I'm Ellen Richards. I was told that you would speak some English?"

The other man, a few years older wearing what looked like American jeans and a leather jacket, stepped forward. "I speak very good English, Miss Ellen Richards. I am Jamshid Fatahi."

"Oh, thank goodness, I'm afraid I'm totally lost when it comes to modern languages."

"Farsi is an old language, older than Arabic."

Iraj pulled out a chair for her. Sitting, Ellen said, "I know, but my languages are ancient Egyptian, Mesopotamian, and Assyrian, and those I can only read. Nothing after about 2,000 years ago, I'm afraid."

Iraj nudges Jamshid, wanting to know what Ellen just said.

Listening to Jamshid's smooth, cultured Farsi as he translated, she thought, we're all going to learn a lot from each other.

The hotel only had one main dish for dinner with soft drinks or tea. There was flat bread and salad which Ellen refused having been warned not to eat fresh produce unless it came out of a skin or peel and no dairy products that hadn't been cooked. The man at the Embassy had been very explicit having experienced a recent return to his home country after many years in the United States.

"American diet," he had explained, "has little or no enzymes and our natural defense against food from the ground in other countries where they do have lots of enzymes is non existent. You must be very careful, especially were you are going."

The tables filled as the solitary waiter rushed, serving steaming plates of fluffy rice, a kind of broiled ground meat sticks, fresh bread, relish and lemon juice. Ellen ate a little, tasting everything and then offering the rest to Iraj who had already finished his own meal and eagerly devoured her's as well.

During the meal, Ellen kept Jamshid busy translating his and her English conversation for Iraj, not wanting to exclude him.

"You are a student at the University?" she asked of Jamshid.

"Yes, but I return to Bam to take care of my mother and sisters. My father died last year and now I must work to take care of them."

"I'm sorry. I know its difficult. I lost both my parents several years ago in an automobile accident."

Iraj took her hand in sympathy as he listened to the translation, then spoke very direct to Ellen.

"He says he also lost a mother last year and now only has a father. He says you can meet his father sometime soon and he will be a father for all of us."

"That's very kind of you, Iraj. I will look forward to meeting your father." Ellen looked directly into Iraj's dark brown eyes as she spoke. He was young, but the hardness of his life showed around his eyes.

Iraj beamed, flashing white teeth, and began speaking again. Jamshid slowed him down, translating to Ellen.

"Iraj has been driving a truck from Kerman to the coast at Bander Abbas and back again, many, many times, he says. Now he can work for you and do maybe some important work and learn English. And thank you very much for coming to Bam!"

At that moment Ellen looked up toward the front windows, the daylight had faded and the interior fluorescents reflected harshly in the glass. She was startled to see perhaps fifteen people, mostly young boys, pressed up against the glass peering in and they were all looking at her.

Jamshid, also suddenly aware of their unexpected audience, jumped up embarrassed and rushed to the front door of the hotel. The people saw him coming and most quickly dispersed, a few waving goodbye.

Jamshid stopped to talk to the hotel manager before returning to the table and the man followed him back to their table.

"This is Mr. Ali Espakeh, the manager. He say to please excuse the people. They are only curious."

Mr. Espakeh spoke briefly and Jamshid translated. "He say very few foreign women ever come to Bam. You are very much a...what is the word? A celebrity."

After the man had left, Jamshid said, hesitantly, "It's your hair, I think. You know these boys and men only see the hair of their mother, their sisters and maybe their grandmothers. To see you is a very big thing, but perhaps not so good for you."

"I'm sorry. It was very thoughtless of me. I should have worn a scarf. I guess I thought everything had relaxed a lot more than it has."

"The uptown people in Tehran don't mind as much and lots of the younger girls go without chador, but not here in Bam."

As she finished her Coke, her sister's last words a week ago over the phone in San Francisco rang in her ears. "You really shouldn't take off like this by yourself on these spur-of-the-moment job assignments. You don't speak the language. I mean, a lone woman in the midst of all those depraved men? Ellen they're Muslims, they keep their wives locked up and covered up! I know, I spent a week in Saudi Arabia two years ago. You remember?"

She had shushed her and assured her that the government was behind her every step of the way. It was a great opportunity. Millie was not convinced. Ellen was glad Mille had not been here to look up and see the window full of ogglers.

The vehicle that had been ordered through the travel agency still had not arrived and the men were not comfortable with leaving the gear sitting in the lobby all night. After a seemingly long and emotional discussion in Farsi, Jamshid announced that he would stay in the lobby as long as necessary and Iraj would go and find the truck.

"Oh I hope its not a truck. The camera and computer gear are so sensitive to dust. I had asked for some kind of enclosed vehicle like a RV or a station wagon."

Upon understanding this, Iraj brightened, saying in very accented English, "Ok! Ok, I fix!" and he was out the front door and into the dark street on his bicycle.

Exhausted, Ellen went up to sleep, leaving the disposition of all the gear in the hands of her new, eager assistants.

The morning brought a soft knock on her door in what seemed only a few moments after she had closed her eyes.

"Miss Ellen? Miss Ellen?"

Eyes opening to green enamel and the very stained, white ceiling, realization that is was morning. She had slept through the night.

"Just a moment" She put on her jacket and cracked the door to see a rather bleary-eyed Jamshid. By his clothes and face she could tell he had been there all night.

"Miss Ellen, the car is here. Iraj just arrived. He and his father had to go all the way to his mother's brother who lives close to Kerman and then drive back. But the car is very good. I hope you will be pleased."

"Ok, yes. I'll be down in a few minutes. Give me a chance to get dressed."

"I'm sorry I wake you."

"No, its all right. I guess I was more tired than I thought. You know, I'd kill for a cup of coffee."

"You want coffee? I will say to the cook, make coffee!"

"Thank you Jamshid. Its not a great start for your job. I'm sorry."

"No, no. I am proud to assist you. This is life in Iran. You will see. We make everything work correctly for your project."

His sincerity and enthusiasm was almost too good. She wasn't sure. It certainly wasn't like the workers she had in North Carolina or in California, but then the work ethic was different in Iran, and besides opportunity didn't come as often. And the younger one, Iraj, driving all night to bring a car. She'd have to do something extra for them.

Faced with having to dress and go down the hall to the bathroom, Ellen realized she really needed a big terrycloth bathrobe for such occasions... with a hood!

Jamshid met her on the narrow stairs to take the two cases.

"I'm afraid to leave them in the room. Its the cameras and my computer."

"You're right. There are maybe bad people here or people from the government who might want to see what you have." He led the way to a table as a very tired, but smiling, Iraj came from the kitchen which was off under the stairs. He was carrying a cup of coffee.

"Nescafe Instant," he said proudly. Then pointing out the plate glass windows, "Jeep...Wagoneer, very good!"

It was a huge, old model, high, long, boxy, Jeep station wagon. The color was metallic gray. Iraj explained through Jamshid the it belonged to his uncle and was on loan for $100 U.S. dollars. The engine was in very good condition and it would take them anywhere they wanted to go.

"What happened to the roof? Was it in an accident?" She could see a large, ugly welded patch on the back half of the top.

"It was used in the war against the Shah, Miss Ellen," Jamshid said, listening intently to Iraj's continuing narrative. "They opened the back to mount a gun."

"That was Iraj's Uncle... in the war?"

Jamshid laughed, "No, his Uncle is Baluchi. They would never go near Tehran. He just bought it from someone passing through about five years ago. Its too ugly for Tehranis."

"You don't seem to care much for people in Tehran," Ellen observed, savoring the coffee.

Jamshid's face was very serious.. "They are too important... in their minds. They think everything is better in Tehran."

"But you were in the city at the University weren't you?"

"Yes, but they treat me like a country boy and make fun of my speaking." He had to stop to translate everything they had said for Iraj who nodded vehemently in agreement.

"Personally," Ellen said as the boy from the kitchen brought bread, cheese, hot tea and jam, "I think Tehran is way too big. Twelve million people is too many. I'm glad I didn't have to go outside the airport."

Jamshid laughed, "You must go ride in a taxi some day in Tehran. Everyone drive like, how you say?... A bat in hell."

Smiling, Ellen said, "Something like that."

She only had to deal with taxis in Kerman which was provincial by comparison to the cacophony she experienced even inside the airport of the capital city.

Kerman customs officers were polite, but firmly told her that her checked bags wouldn't be ready for several days and that she should come back the next day to see about her passport. Frustrated, Ellen showed the man the papers she carried with authorization for her project from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, a letter from the Ministry of Antiquities, and a stack of documents from the United States Department of State. The man immediately stamped and returned her passport and after several phone calls and a forty-five minute wait he returned to say her bags would be ready the following day at 11:00 A.M. She felt it was a minor victory.

The flat bread was still warm and crusty. Ellen found the cheese very salty so she covered it with jam from the little packets. She glanced up to see two weary-eyed young men watching the jam on cheese operation with disbelief.

"I'm sorry, I guess American taste is different."

Jamshid, embarrassed, said, "No, no it is good... I am sure.."

"Listen, you two are both exhausted. How about I go out to the old ruins and just look around. We can start the real work tomorrow."

Iraj quickly said, "Chi goft?"

Jamshid held his hand up to Iraj, "Sabkhon, wait." To Ellen he said, "No, is not good for you to go alone out there." His eyes were direct.

"I just want to get an idea of what the site looks like." Her smile faded seeing the serious look on Jamshid's face.

"No, Miss Ellen. You are woman and a foreigner. You are maybe not safe alone." Then wanting to make the moment lighter, "For example, it is a very big place and it is easy to get lost." Then with a smile, "We would have to call the thieves to find you."

"All right, you win. We'll all go together, but just for half a day. Then you can go home and get some sleep. Ok?"

"Ok," with a grin. He explained what had transpired to Iraj who also expressed his relief for only half a day.

"Ok, Miss Ellen... Ok!"            (To Chapter 2)

Copyright © 2000 by Gale Peterson